


Let Me Break

by SunstruckSeraph



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Dream Team - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minecraft, One Shot, References to Depression, Sad Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), implied depression, implied mental health issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26981275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunstruckSeraph/pseuds/SunstruckSeraph
Summary: He had been tense all day -- feeling more weight on his heart than usual. That was the thing: the weight was always there. It didn’t matter who he was with or what he was doing. He sometimes thought that he could win the lottery and part of him would still feel heavy and cold, deep, deep down. George noticed.__Dream keeps up such an effortless façade for his fans, his family, everyone -- there's only one person he'll break in front of. God, the ocean between him and George hurts like hell.__The spiritual successor to "A Little Cold, A Little Numb."
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 794





	Let Me Break

**Author's Note:**

> Seraph is back at it again! It's been a little while since my last update-- real life has been kicking me in the shins lately. This fic is a surprise, I know. It surprised me too, but it poured right out of me and onto the page and I thought I should share it with all of you. The updates to the angel fic are still coming, as is Dream's side of Read Between the Lines.
> 
> Anyway, this is very similar energy to A Little Cold, A Little Numb, which I've received overwhelming positive feedback on. It's been an honor to write for you all and hear all your wonderful words of encouragement. As always, your feedback makes my world go 'round. Enjoy!

There is a feeling George inspires, a feeling that Dream can’t quite name. Like sinking into a pile of blankets or a warm bath when you’re freezing cold, like falling into bed after staying out til dawn, the relief of letting all the broken pieces of yourself clatter onto the floor. Because that’s what he does around George -- he lets himself break. It might be the only times he does, but by God, he does it. It took some work, though. It wasn’t always like this.  
__  
The first time Dream broke was on a visit to London, in the quiet twilight of George’s apartment. He had been tense all day -- feeling more weight on his heart than usual. That was the thing: the weight was always there. It didn’t matter who he was with or what he was doing. He sometimes thought that he could win the lottery and part of him would still feel heavy and cold, deep, deep down. George noticed. Dream hid the weight on his heart and back well, but George could see it in fleeting moments. It was everywhere: catching in Dream’s throat in the two minutes after they ended a stream, making his voice lower and duller when George called too early in the morning, dripping from his fingertips when he didn’t have anything to do with his hands. That first time Dream broke was a long time coming, and both he and George knew it. It happened at George’s apartment, after a day full of wonderful nothings. George had just put on the water for tea and Dream came up behind him, quiet and somehow small in his large frame, his shoulders rounded over. He slumped over onto George from behind all at once, his head resting on his friend’s shoulder.

“Dream, I’m trying to make tea,” George laughed.

Dream didn’t move. He just buried his face further into George’s shirt.

“Dream. Move, you big baby!”

Dream wrapped his arms around George’s waist. Normally, George would have squirmed and teased and tossed him off, but something about the way Dream touched him made him falter. There was none of his American friend’s usual playfulness.

“Dream?” George said softly.

Slowly, he reached up a hand to pet Dream’s hair. When there was still no response, he started to pull away. Then --

“Don’t go,” Dream said quietly.

It was such a simple request, so plain, but George could hear the edge of desperation in it.

“What’s wrong?”

A pause. Dream’s arms sat tight around his waist, a bid for warmth.

“I --”

Dream’s voice caught. He tried again.

“My chest aches. And there’s so much in my head.”

George stilled, letting his friend’s voice sink in. Something was wrong.

“What happened?”

Dream let out a shaky sigh.

“Nothing. That’s the problem. Today was good. But now it’s getting late and I --”

Dream faltered as George reached up to run a gentle hand through his hair again.

“Do you feel like this a lot?” George asked timidly.

A little breath of silence, heavy and thick.

“Yes,” Dream whispered.

“How often?”

Dream tried to answer. Really, he did. But the answer he was reaching for was something like “every day,” and he couldn’t bear to hear any more concern in George’s voice. Instead, he held on tighter and tried not to shake. Key word being “tried.” George picked up on it and put his hands on Dream’s, trying to disentangle him. Dream let go instantly, worried that he’d crossed a line. What if George was disgusted? Ashamed for him? Or just overwhelmed? He was asking too much. No one should have to deal with him -- with the mess he was. There was a brief, horrible moment in which they weren’t touching and George turned around to look up into his eyes. And then it was over because George was hugging him in earnest, arms wrapped around him, head over his shoulder.

Dream cried. He was used to crying, but never like this -- never in front of someone. Never in front of George. The tears started falling. He shook. And suddenly, there it was. That feeling. Warm and safe and good. George’s hands on his back and in his hair, soothing. Like hot chocolate right before the frostbite sets in. George’s fingers rubbing soft circles into the fabric of his shirt, supporting all six feet of Dream with his small frame. Like the sun hitting a long-frozen lake for the first time in a long while. He stood there in George’s kitchen for two seconds and also for forever, wrapped up in his friend, crying for the first time in too long. George murmured the occasional platitude, but for the most part, they were silent. It hurt the same way pulling an arrow out of a wound hurts. That is to say: like hell, but directly followed by an overwhelming sense of relief. Dream shivered as George ran gentle hands through his hair and the tea whistled away on the stove, unchecked.  
__  
There is a feeling that Dream reaches for, something so vast and deep and wonderful that it fills up the cavern he carries in his chest. He strives for it in moments, as if standing in a very dark place, holding up his arms to a very bright light.  
__  
The second time Dream broke, there was an ocean between him and George. It was late in his timezone, a little past midnight. If he read the words “face reveal” one more time, he was going to throw up. The initial panic that washed over him after the barrage of “Dream Face Reveal?!” videos that popped up that night had faded, but he still felt sick. It was fake, thankfully, a joke gone too far, but there was still a pit in his stomach and his shoulders felt tight. He had already declined two calls from Sapnap, one from BadBoyHalo, and one from Wilbur. He wanted George almost as much as he never ever wanted George to see him like this again. He didn’t call. He sat and stared through the wall into nothing and shook. His Twitter was blowing up, notifications pouring in by the dozen. He was about to tear his headphones off and find somewhere to curl up and try to calm down when another call came in. George. Thank God.

“Dream?”

Dream could barely find it in himself to say hello.

“Dream, are you all right? It’s fake, you know it’s fake, but I had to check --”

“Thank you,” Dream whispered.

He was holding it in, willing his voice to stay steady. It might have worked on someone else, but George could tell.

“What’s going on?” George asked, “You sound...you don’t sound good.”

Dream shook his head, as if George could see him.

“I’m not. There’s this pit in my stomach and ice in my chest and I --”

His voice cracked on the emotion.

“-- I don’t know how to keep pretending I’m okay.”

A muffled sigh and a soft crackle as George adjusted in his chair.

“Then don’t,” he replied, voice gentle.

Dream was quiet for a moment, trying to even out his breathing.

“Don’t pretend. Not for my benefit.”

Dream didn’t cry then. Not quite. It was a close thing, but in the end, he ended up whispering all his fear into his headset, across the ocean between him and his friend, letting George sift through it until some of it drained. It was an ordinary kind of magic, Dream thought, this thing George could do to him. He tried not to feel guilty, but sometimes he doubted he deserved the softness that George afforded him. He wasn’t worth it. He knew that.

“Be good to yourself tonight, okay?”

George’s voice, a bit crackly and muffled through the microphone, but clear in its intent.

“I’ll try,” Dream replied.

He did try. Even with ice in his chest, he fought the urge to skip food and stay up til dawn. Across the sea, George worried. He didn’t admit it, but he did worry.  
__  
There is a feeling that Dream does not know well. It’s something he barely dares to want, a warmth that he doesn’t always think he’s worthy of. The mask he wears, the robin hood facade, cracks around the edges sometimes and he blames himself every time. The relief of taking it off isn’t something he gets to have very often.  
__  
The third time Dream broke, it was George’s turn to visit. They were sitting on a bench in a public park in the middle of the day and Dream was watching George sip his coffee. It was sunny -- that kind of thick, dreamy sunny that Florida does best. Nothing was wrong. Dream watched George’s eyes catch the sun. Everything was wrong. He should be happy, right? He wasn’t. What did happy feel like? He couldn’t remember. Or maybe he was happy and just didn’t know it. Maybe this was his happy. Maybe he was broken in some small, profound way. He wouldn’t know it if he was, after all. Would he?

“Dream?”

Dream blinked.

“Yeah?”

George was looking over at him, brown eyes full of concern.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Dream murmured.

George raised an eyebrow.

“You’re not,” he admonished, “You stopped breathing for a second.”

“Did I?”

“What’s wrong?”

Dream shrugged and let his perpetual smirk fall away. He was exhausted. Part of him was always exhausted.

“Everything. Nothing. I’m -- I might be broken.”

“Dream --”

“No, I’m serious. I might be broken somewhere deep down. I don’t think I can be happy. Or even when I am, like right now, here with you, part of me is cold. Why am I always so cold?”

“Dream, I --”

The pity in his voice was too much.

“I just, I have to be this thing all the time now, for the fans, for my family, for everyone and I can’t --”

“Clay.”

Dream quieted at that, meeting George’s eyes. George reached for his hand and he offered it, no hesitation.

“Clay, look at me.”

“I’m looking.”

“No, you’re not,” George snapped, “Look at me.”

Dream stared into his eyes and caught on, matching his breath to George’s. He had been hyperventilating. He hadn’t really noticed.

“You’re not broken,” George said firmly, “Or -- no, maybe you are. Maybe you are, but that’s fine. You can be whatever you are around me, you don’t have to keep up the effort trying to hold all your pieces together.”

Tears were starting to track down Dream’s cheeks. George smudged one away with his thumb and the gesture was so small, but so big. So silly, but so important.

“I’ve got you, okay?”

Dream could only nod. George leaned in to kiss his cheek, right where the tear tracks were forming. Dream took it exactly as George meant it -- not as a confession, but as a small comfort. Something meant to articulate what George couldn’t say. He only had so much eloquence in him, and Dream knew he fumbled with affectionate words sometimes. That little kiss meant more than either of them acknowledged.

They walked home in a soft, gentle silence, the sun on the backs of their necks. Dream steadied his breathing and tried to see things as he looked at them. Soon, he would have to take George back to the airport and that ocean would stretch out between them once again. But not that day. Not quite yet.  
__  
There is a feeling Dream is growing accustomed to. He is warm, through and through, all the way down to the ice in the depths of his chest -- finally melting. The feeling never goes away. George makes sure of that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know your thoughts in the comments!


End file.
